Ketchup
by L-reader
Summary: Randall plays some catch up with Hershel. Light mentions of Layclaire, even if Claire technically isn't in the story. One-shot.


It was one in the morning on the day after he left Monte D'or when Randall called him, excitement and glee barely contained in his voice, and loud bouts of laughter between his words. "I knew it! I told you that I'd get you into puzzles! I told you!"

Perhaps in another lifetime, he would have told Randall off for being awake so early with an annoyed sigh, and then hung up as soon as it was clear that his message was heard. He was not that person any more, and of course he would indulge the friend who he had been missing for 18 years. He could complain about early morning calls at a later time.

So he had laughed back with an amused chuckle, and responded as calmly as one like Hershel Layton could to a person like Randall Ascot. "Well, puzzles are quite enjoyable."

"Oh man, I need that on tape!" There was silence for a moment or two. "Anyway, Hersh, what have I missed in the past… how long was it… 18 years?"

"…Are you sure you don't want to do this with Angela and Henry? I am sure they could fill in much of the gaps that-"

"Pshhh! That's all they've been doing for the past few hours!" He could practically feel the dismissive flick of the wrist that Randall was probably giving. "They didn't do anything! Well, actually, they did do stuff, but it's just economics and waiting and stuff I don't care about. But you! You're an archaeology professor and you go on adventures! Tell me about those! No, wait! Just tell me everything you remember, starting from the day I was gone!"

"Randall, that might take a while-"

"I don't mind! I have all the time in the world!"

(…I don't.)

Hershel gave a soft sigh. He remembered. He remembered being 17 years old, and watching his best friend fall; always thinking afterwards that if only he was smarter, if only he was stronger, if only he was more careful, then maybe he wouldn't have lost him on that day. He remembered how completely alone he felt (why should he have had friends, he didn't deserve them, not after what he'd done, not after he practically murdered Randall, and it wasn't like he'd get a chance ever again, thanks to Angela's rumours). He remembered taking archaeology in his friend's honour, even if everyone told him he didn't care for Randall, hoping that perhaps, one day (he didn't know when), he could tell him about what he learned (and then say sorry).

"Uh, Hersh? Are you still there? Did you fall asleep? I'm not that boring, am I?"

Well. Now was as good a time as any, he supposed. It would only take a brief moment, after all.

"Randall, I'm still here." Perhaps that statement was for himself too, as if to confirm something (I'm here, Randall, and so are you, and we are both alive and alright and not guilty).

And so he told him. He skipped over the emotional turmoil following Akbadain (He had a hunch that it would have cut the conversation short. Thankfully, Randall didn't press about it.) and told Randall about his university days, and about Clark Triton and Brenda and how Clark had begged Hershel to take him along on one of the adventures he went on when he skipped class (Randall gave a cry of delight and shock at this information), but he always said no (Randall's delight turned to anger). He wasn't sure then, but perhaps as he spoke to Randall, he realized he was terrified of losing Clark the same way he did him, and this was how he prevented it from happening. It took a good year of persistence before Hershel took Clark on any expeditions, and for the first time, he refused to let Clark move beyond an arm's length away.

But eventually, he let him wander. It was small at first, but the distances gradually grew (one meter, then two meters, then three meters, then five meters, then ten meters…). Hershel became less protective.

Perhaps that was when he learned to cope. Perhaps that was when he learned that he wasn't entirely at fault for the incident in Akbadain. (It was hard not thinking that he was, after a full year of other people insisting that it was true. As much as it was his home, it was good that he got away from the toxicity at Stansbury, he thinks.)

And then he told Randall about Claire. And he told him the way that her scarlet hair caught sunset and the way she had acted and the way that he fell completely in love with her (When Randall said he wanted to meet her, Hershel shook his head, and continued with his story). He told Randall how they watched the stars and went to fancy restaurants and did things that all the cheesy couples you saw on television and in books and in movies and laughed at did because even if it was silly to watch, when you did it yourself it was fun and cute and adorable.

He told Randall about the top hat, then about the incident and the explosion and how he looked into it because nobody else would. He told him about his coma and his stolen research and how they had to _beg_ him to stop so that he wouldn't get himself killed.

Randall was silent for a very long time after that. Minutes passed before he said anything, and what he said was: "I'm sorry for your loss," and Hershel knew he only said it because he didn't know what to say, and to confirm that nobody had hung up.

Hershel didn't realize it until Randall had spoken, but tears had started to stream down his cheeks. He had gotten over the loss of Randall, but he wasn't over Claire's death quite yet.

* * *

Randall must have decided that this was all too sad, and that it was his turn to tell stories, so as to lighten the mood.

So he broke the silence and told Hershel about the kindly people of Craggy Dale (you might not be able to see his face, but he's a trustworthy and nice fellow, I promise. He treated me like he was his own son, you know. I feel bad for leaving him without any kind of explanation.) and how he had forgotten everything in the fall. He told him that he tried desperately to get his memory back (this process may have included many blows to the head), but how he failed every time. He told him about how his love for puzzles resurfaced, and how he just couldn't throw away the mask because surely, it was important to his person somehow, because why else was he clutching it so tightly when he arrived?

Randall stopped telling his story when the letters from Descole started to arrive.

So then Hershel told Randall about Misthallery, and he told Randall about Ambrosia, and he told Randall about all the adventures he had in between, and before, and after. But he didn't tell Randall about Monte D'or. There was no need, because they had just lived through it, and the memories still stung.

So instead, he told Randall that Jean Descole was painfully familiar somehow and he didn't know why, but the memory felt like it was just out of his reach, and for some reason when he tried to remember, something else would come to mind from his childhood, and it would drive his mind away from the masked man.

The familiarity was still there, though, and perhaps he had somehow just forgotten where he first met Descole the same way he forgot where he first met Emmy. (Though, unlike with Emmy, he doubted that Descole would just tell him. Hershel suddenly decided that he really needed to improve his memory skills.)

Of course, Randall had instantly started brainstorming who the man could be behind the mask, (Oh man, Hershel, what if he was an evil version of you from 15 years in the future? Or what if he's your long lost brother?) Hershel joined in soon after. (It wasn't a very serious thing, of course)

They were laughing and joking like they were children again (one part was probably because they were having fun, and the other that being that they were so sleep deprived that it was having some sort of profound effect on their emotional state).

* * *

When the two were good and laughed out and all their stories were told and heard, it was six in the morning.

Angela and Emmy had to forcibly drag the pair of friends from their respective phones. And so, after much protesting and bargaining and farewells that spanned at least ten minutes for each, the two reluctantly hung up, and ended their five hour conversation.

As he prepared himself for the day with a yawn, Hershel noted the fact he had only rested for three hours.

Hm. Perhaps he would call in sick today. He had to catch up on some sleep.

**[[ This just in on: I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO END OFF FICS, BUT I'VE LOST INSPIRATION AND I CAN'T BE BOTHERED TO WRITE ANY MORE!**

**Ah well, this feels very ramble-y, doesn't it? It's a rather strange writing style to try out.**

**See ya! ]]**


End file.
